


Dreams Turn To Nightmares

by Krasimer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And then there was the end of the series, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Archangel Gabriel (Supernatural), Because it was an experiment, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamscapes, Episode: s02e20 What Is and What Should Never Be, Episode: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Episode: s03e10 Dream a Little Dream, Experimental Style, Fever Dreams, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Memories, Post-Canon Fix-It, Prophetic Dreams, Protective Gabriel (Supernatural), Season/Series 02, Sort Of, Soulless Sam Winchester, Time Travel Fix-It, Why Did I Write This?, and i was angry, dreamroot, time travel through dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29396406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krasimer/pseuds/Krasimer
Summary: There was always something off about the flow of a dream.The way it seemed to go too fast and then too slow and the way time dribbled past in eddies and waves and trickles. Reality distorted into seconds, minutes, days, hours, weeks – everything pushed together and then pulled apart again.Sam sat up in bed, blinking a couple of times.Reality was wrong.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	Dreams Turn To Nightmares

There was always something off about the flow of a dream.

The way it seemed to go too fast and then too slow and the way time dribbled past in eddies and waves and trickles. Reality distorted into seconds, minutes, days, hours, weeks – everything pushed together and then pulled apart again.

Sam sat up in bed, blinking a couple of times.

Reality was _wrong._

He looked at his hands, tried to count his fingers. Gadreel and Gabriel and all the other angels later and he still couldn’t figure out how to ensure his grip on reality. None of them had even slightly given him a hint. “The way to short-circuit a dream,” Sam muttered as he clenched his hands into fists. “Is to look at your feet. Lucid dreaming. Gain control.”

He looked at his feet.

Something about them was off. With a frown, Sam tried to remember the last time he’d actually looked at his feet.

Tried to remember the last time he’d checked in with reality.

_Helloooo. Trickster._

He whipped his head up and around, trying to figure out where that voice had come from. “Gabriel?”

There was no answer.

His feet remained his feet, at the ends of his legs, but there was something off about them still. His fingers blurred and for a moment, just a moment, he thought he saw seven on each hand. Five, seven, eight, five. Fingers, clenched into fists, spread out as taut as he could make them go. Reality looked less real, something off, like a glitch in the programming.

There had been a janitor, once.

There had been a girl and a janitor and a different city every day. Nightmares and tricks and getting beaten bloody. Their entire lives were nightmares, actually. Anyone else might have gone insane from what their lives were like.

Sam brought a knee to his chest.

When the door opened, he looked up and saw Dean. Another glitch in the programming, Dean’s mouth was moving before the words actually came out. “Got a case,” he said in a tone that almost convinced Sam that things were normal. If it hadn’t been for the fact that his eyes never strayed from a spot on the wall, he might have believed.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that they hadn’t gone on an actual case for _years_ , he might have believed.

Dean stopped and stared at him, blinking a couple of times. “Sam?”

His hands twitched at his sides and, for a moment, Sam thought he was on the edge of something. Staring into a pit that had gained the ability to stare back into him. This had happened before, he was suddenly very sure of that. He and Dean had been in this exact moment before – they had been in this room, in this moment, in this exact frame of time.

“Dean,” he stared at his hands again, taking a couple of deep breaths. He felt the frame of the Impala’s seat digging into his side, despite sitting on his bed in the bunker. He could feel his breathing rattling in his chest, cold air reaching into his lungs like clawed fingers and pulling out the oxygen he so dearly needed.

_Something was wrong with reality._

Charcot-Wilbrand.

The inability to dream.

“Sam,” Dean’s voice was coming from a long way away, like he was at the end of a tunnel. “Sam!” he felt a hand touch his shoulder and he felt dizzy, unfocused and unstable. His stomach seemed to drop out of his body and into a void. “Sammy!”

_He’d taken the dream root._

It was like being hit by lightning – the realization struck him just as quickly as any bolt, would have burned him down just the same if he hadn’t managed to open his eyes and wrap both of his hands around Dean’s wrist.

“We’re dreaming,” he whispered. “All of this – it’s a dream.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean frowned, still hovering close by, like he was afraid Sam was going to fall over. “Sammy, what are you saying right now?”

“This – all of this – is a dream,” Sam frowned right back at him, meeting his eyes. “I don’t—”

The words were gone before he could even say them. The instant epiphany had disappeared, like it was yanked right out of his head. It left him speechless, open-mouthed and gasping like a fish out of water. Something had occurred to him, something _important_.

He shook his head and looked at Dean again. “Sorry.” He rolled his head from side to side, popping his neck. “You were saying?”

“…You’re so weird, sometimes,” Dean scoffed. “Anyway. Found us a case.”

_There had been an angel, once._

He gets dressed in the morning, pulling himself together like he’s sewing up a wound. A clean edge here, a ruined line of him there. Stitch it all together, slide into his skin like nothing is wrong and he isn’t dying inside of himself.

_There had been an archangel._

It’s like a game, almost – he has certainly played it long enough. Pretend he’s okay, pretend he’s fine, pretend he’s normal. Pretend he’s still human.

_They had been drawn to each other._

He looks in the mirror and sees what he’s expecting to see – Sam Winchester, Hunter, staring back at him.

_He keeps dreaming._

_The glass fractures under his gaze._

The hunt isn’t much, isn’t enough, is too much.

When he just wants to curl up inside of himself and stop existing, everything is too much. When he wants contact with people, just to know he’s not dead, everything is too little. His skin is starved and the beast inside of it is backed into a corner, snarling at everything that comes near.

Sam pulls apart, cleans, puts back together, wishes he could do the same to himself. Routine, loses himself in the counting of it, fits the grip back into his palm like the action figure he is.

_Charco-Wilbrand._

The words hold no meaning, to him. He doesn’t remember what they are, where they came from. Like they’ve been put into his head by some outside source.

When he looks in the mirror –

_Glass shattering—_

He sees a younger man he doesn’t recognize, the years wiped off his face and the strain of living pulled off his back.

There is an emptiness to his eyes when he blinks and sees himself again.

_There is nothing worse than the silence inside your own head._

X

He hasn’t let himself be aware of it in a long time.

The way his entire body is cold, his hands numb. They still work, he’s still a functioning machine, there’s no reason to tear him apart and decommission him.

_He still works._

His father’s mission is stamped across his heart, still. It has been _years_ since he needed to follow those orders, but he still settles into the skin of the world like he’s trying to outrun a dead man. His father has been dead and burned for nearly a decade.

_There are no more violent hands holding him._

Sam is an adult now, his father is dead, he doesn’t need to keep going on an insane revenge mission for a perceived slight. If he stops, however, he’ll never start up again. A useless machine refusing to function, a gun refusing to fire. If he’s useless, then he’ll fall apart and rust, his bones wrenched apart and the marrow eaten out.

_He had a father – the man he was raised around was not him._

Bobby is long gone, too.

_If he had the choice, he might choose to turn to dust._

His dreams are incoherent, like he’s dreaming within a dream. Reality feels warped, broken and dirtied, like nothing is actually what it seems to be. It glitches and wavers and he knows the feeling too well these days.

_He wishes he knew why he keeps dreaming of waking up._

Dean, precious little Dean, first born son of Mary and John – almost biblical – burned up on the ceiling with his mother all those years ago. Maybe that’s why he’s still running the revenge mission – he slipped inside the skin of a dead boy, took his place. He looks out at the world from behind dead eyes and pretends there is anything left inside of him.

_Breathe again and again, little soldier, your mission isn’t ever over and you’ll never be free._

Charco-Wilbrand.

The words stick in his mind.

Maybe one day, they’ll actually mean something.

“Does anything ever seem wrong to you?”

Dean looked up at Sam from polishing his gun, an eyebrow raised. “What do you mean, Sam?”

“We’re not awake,” Sam shook his head. “And you’re not dreaming.”

Dropping the gun to the floor out of shock, Dean watched as lines of blood crossed over his skin. They formed patterns, a design he’d seen somewhere before. When it was done, he looked back up to Sam. “Sammy?”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “I’m not.”

Closing his eyes, Dean felt the nearly-feral sob wrenching in his chest. The blood on his hands started to burn, tearing into the heart of him. When he managed to get his eyes open, Sam had disappeared.

_“DEAN!”_

He jolted, still sobbing, at the sound of a name he thought he recognized. That word was someone he had known, once, someone he had been willing to do anything for. That had been a long time ago, he couldn’t remember anymore.

“ _Dean, **please.**_ ”

He felt hands on his heart, grabbing his hands, on his shoulders, a kiss he barely remembered anymore pressed against his forehead.

“ _If you can hear me, please wake up.”_

When his eyes opened—

When his eyes opened.

The hospital room was filled to the brim with boring white.

Next to the bed, machinery was beeping slowly, counting out his heartbeat with every sound. The room was dimly lit, the lights turned down a little lower. When he turned his head, Dean could see out a window. “H—” he coughed, curling neatly as he choked on his dry throat.

Within a couple of seconds, someone had rushed into the room and laid him back down, careful hands checking on him. Looking up, he saw a young woman in a nurse’s uniform, her scrubs a cheery purple with small ducks on her shirt. “Mister Haggady?” she asked, pressing her fingers to his pulse. She was checking his vitals, counting out his heart rate along with the machine next to him. Her smile was kind, soft and gentle, and if he had been feeling better, he might have flirted with her. “I’m Judy, one of the nurses in this hospital.”

As it was, however, she turned to the little side-table and picked up a small cup of something. “Here,” she smiled again, slipping an ice chip into his mouth. “Let’s see if we can’t fix that dry throat of yours.”

“Mm,” Dean blinked a couple of times, wincing when she pressed her fingertips against his temple, checking for something. “What’s going on?” the ice chip bounced against his tongue, feeling like the most real thing he ever remembered.

“You and your brother, Mister Haggady,” Judy pulled back, turning and grabbing one of the chairs. “Well, I am supposed to let the doctors tell you, but the two of you have been comatose for about two weeks, now. When you were admitted, there were high levels of something the doctors couldn’t identify in your blood, along with a frankly alarming cocktail of drugs.”

“Sam?” Dean almost bolted upright, stopped only by her hand on his shoulder. He felt weaker than he could ever remember being. “Where’s my brother?”

“He’s fine,” she smiled again. “Mister Haggady, your brother is fine. Sleeping, actually,” she gestured over her shoulder to a curtained off part of the room. “He woke up yesterday. I suppose that the coma and your hospital stay gave your bodies the time they needed to flush the danger out.” She actually beamed, this time. “There’s an older gentlemen waiting around, the last I heard. He says he’s your father, but he hasn’t been able to provide any identification to that and since his last name is different than yours, we haven’t allowed him to come in and stay for the extended visiting hours.”

“Who?”

“A man named Robert Wallis,” Judy paused, hummed as she thought about something. “Somewhere in his forties or fifties, grey hair, a bit of a crab.” She looked back at him. “Does that sound familiar?”

“Bobby,” Dean almost cried with the relief of the name punching through him. “That’s my dad,” he nodded. “Adopted, I mean. My brother and me were adopted by him when we were really little, but we kept our name.”

“Okay then,” Judy perked back up despite the fact that it had to be the ass end of late as hell. “I’ll have him added to the accepted visitor list, then. How about you get some rest, Mister Haggady?”

“Yeah,” Dean leaned back in the bed. “Listen, could you do me a favor?”

“Yes?”

“I know it’s not the usual protocol, but could you open the curtain and show me that my brother is okay?” he glanced at the curtain again. “Please? I just need to see for myself. We’re all we really have left, besides Bobby. Our parents died when I was four and I’ve been taking care of him since he was six months old.”

Judy bit her lip, then nodded slowly. “Alright,” she stood up, pulling back the curtain as quietly as she could.

Just like she had said, there was Sam, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted rather than the Dreamroot-enabled sleep.

Dreamroot.

_Bela._

Dean nodded at Judy, forcing himself to smile. “Thanks,” he leaned back in bed, finally, curling up a little more comfortably. “When it’s time, could you send Bobby in?”

“Of course, Mister Haggady.”

With that, Judy slipped out the door again, closing it against the harsh light out in the hallway.

Closing his eyes, Dean relaxed, letting sleep drag at the edges of him.

That was stopped, however, when he heard footsteps.

“You could have died,” came a somber voice he had dreamed of. He knew who it was, but something felt off. “The sound of a prayer was loud enough to rattle Heaven, calling for both of you to be saved from what was happening.” The speaker was right next to his bed, now. “I have spent a fortnight watching over both of you, ensuring that you wake.”

Dean opened his eyes and saw him.

_Castiel._

“You must have some questions,” Castiel looked down at him, as stone-faced as ever. “I am—”

“An angel of the lord,” Dean almost laughed at the look on Castiel’s face. “And I didn’t even have to die to meet you, this time.” He held out a hand. “Dean Winchester. Though I think you know that,” he shrugged. “This is going to sound _insane_ , but you were in my coma dream.” He watched those intensely-blue eyes stare at him, studying his face.

_But that was the thing about dreams, wasn’t it?_

_When they ended, you woke up._

The world around him seemed to twitch and Dean looked out the window of the hospital room, watching the rain falling upside-down past the window.

Castiel, at his side, followed the motion of his head, the line of his gaze. “Is there something out there?”

_It is in the nature of dreams to end._

Dean took a deep breath, the air choking him as his breathing stuttered in his throat, his hands clenching in the blankets spread out on top of him.

Castiel’s eyes— The bluest blue he’d ever seen, eyes so deep he’d drown in them if he wasn’t careful. The specter of his fucking _father_ hanging over his every move, the knowing of how much his dad would have killed him if he’d known about how Dean appreciated men – turned back to him again, his mouth parting somewhat. “Dean?”

_He couldn’t let this be the end of it._

His eyes closed.

_He woke up._

The room surrounding him was dark.

Quiet.

There was an arm slung over his waist, a decidedly non-female person curled up at his back. The photos on the walls were all too familiar, the sort of happy life he’d wanted, had imagined, been tricked into living before.

Djinns weren’t kind.

They gave you everything you wanted without actually giving it to you, gave you a world you would kill to live in and tried to keep you from seeing the truth of it – that you were actually alone, dying in a warehouse or an abandoned basement or something.

When he turned over to see the person sleeping next to him, however, Dean nearly cried out, shock making him choke on his tongue.

Castiel slept next to him, his eyes closed. There were bags under his eyes, like he was humanly exhausted, and there was a trace of stubble on his chin and cheeks. He was wearing an ACDC t-shirt that looked like it had been stolen directly from Dean. For a moment, the picture that was put in front of Dean’s eyes, between the sleep-mussed Castiel and the way his arm was slung over Dean, was almost enough to make him stop questioning reality.

Let this be the one he would die in.

From just on the outer edge of his awareness, however, he could hear someone screaming his name.

_“DEAN!”_

X

Reality wasn’t going to do him the favor of standing still long enough for him to identify it.

He couldn’t see his feet at all, anymore, couldn’t make out where his steps were getting lost in the fog around him. He knew the place he was in, remembered running around and being convinced that this was what hell was like.

Ava and Jake and Andy had been here, too.

He had died here, once.

Dean had sold his soul to bring him back, they had lost him, then gotten him back again, then met Castiel and lost so many others.

When he blinks again, reality darts around and knees him in the back.

The hospital is all white walls and bright lights and he could swear he hears the game show music off in the distance, like Gabriel is lurking around the corners, a Trickster once more.

Something has been happening lately.

Every time he turns around, reality is a shifting, unpleasant thing. Dreams become nightmares become dreams and he isn’t sure what started out as what anymore. He remembers the student who had been driven insane by his lack of dreams, he remembers taking the dream root mixture, remembers Bela taking the Colt and dying.

But he also remembers the darkness.

The quiet.

The gaps in his memories are written off as possession, as his soul still being trapped in hell. There are moments he thinks he is close to waking up.

There are moments he knows he’s awake.

_Does he?_

And he thinks he can tell where they are. They’re the moments he has his gun in his hands, his safety off and a monster prowling in the shadows.

Dean isn’t with him, can’t keep him safe.

Has always been able to, but isn’t there this time. His big brother is his hero and his father and a thousand other things –

But he isn’t here right now.

Sam Winchester is alone. Sam Winchester has always been alone – even when he has his brother, he is alone. No matter what his brother does, no matter what Bobby does, Sam is never safe and he is always alone. Castiel lurks in the background, keeping an even pace away from him and it only ever serves to underline how alone he is.

Hell—

_Hell burns around him._

When he opens his eyes, he sees daylight.

He sees his brother, barely breathing, pleading with him to fight back. Bloodied and bruised, his face practically beaten in. Sam knows the bruises match his own fist, his hand clenched tightly in his brother’s collar.

Lucifer burns under his skin, screams inside of his mind, and Sam blocks him out as best he can.

Bela took the Colt and gave them the Dreamroot.

He doesn’t know where reality is standing, anymore. He’s not sure he ever did.

_All of his dreams, gathering together._

_He breathes, reaching for the light that shines just out of his grasp._

X

Castiel’s eyes burn into his soul and Dean wants to sob.

Like a lost child, like a scared little kid. He wants to just let go and let himself break because he has been at the breaking point for _years_

_And years_

_And years…_

“Dean?” Cas’s voice is rough with sleep, his arm around Dean’s waist a comforting sort of anchor but Dean has already played this game.

“You’re not real,” Dean whispers, tossing the blankets away and standing up on shaking legs. “As much as I want you to be, you’re not _real_. You never are.” He watches as Castiel sits up, a leg curled under him, his hair ruffled and his shirt rumpled. An AC/DC shirt, one he had to have stolen from Dean at some point. “And you’re never going to be.”

Castiel’s eyes are wide, his eyebrows dragging together. “Dean, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring you?” Dean laughs, covers his mouth with both hands.

There is fear.

There is so much fear.

Ever since he was small, fear has hunted him. Even when he hunts the things in the dark, hunts down the monsters that chase children and people alone at night. “I’m scaring you,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ve always been afraid.”

Warm hands cup his cheeks and Dean closes his eyes.

“You do not have to be,” Castiel’s voice is quiet. “I am here, with you, as I will always be.”

_He wakes up._

X

Sam opened his eyes, clutching at his chest.

He chokes on a sound that wants to be laughter, seeing the college campus around him. Gabriel stands in front of him, hands tucked into pockets.

For a moment, Sam sees stitches holding his mouth shut.

“Hey kiddo,” Gabriel crouches down and Sam grabs his hands. He is the light Sam reaches for, this time.

“Gabriel,” Sam whispers his name like it will save him.

_Maybe it will._

“You’re screaming so loud here, you know that? You and your brother both,” Gabriel cups Sam’s cheeks in his hands, letting Sam hold his wrists. He’s so small, so much shorter than Sam, but he feels more solid than Sam ever has. “We’re not supposed to involve ourselves. Not in this fight. I can’t—” he sighs, closes his eyes. “I can’t ignore your terror.” He pushes his lips against Sam’s forehead.

“Wake up, Sammy,” he whispers. “You’ve got some bad things on the horizon. There’s a knife heading for your back.”

_He wakes up._

X

Dean jolted awake, scrabbling for a hold on something.

Anything.

He coughed out a mouthful of dirt and grass, making a face as he pushed himself off the ground. He was outside a diner, his hands clenched in the ragged weeds and tufts of grass that made up the ground. Sitting back on his heels, Dean looked around, breathing hard as he tried to bring himself back to awareness. Sam was gone. He knew that. The Impala was nearby, shining faintly in the dim light from the silent diner.

So either he’d had a bad dream trip or he’d seen some sort of future.

Sam was gone, by now he’d be at the pioneer town. It didn’t make much sense, but Dean knew that was where he’d be. Pulling out his phone, Dean called Bobby, explained quickly, then sat in silence for a minute. Looking at the sky, he smiled. “Worth a shot, right?” he laughed at the stars above him, wondered which one might be the one he was looking for. He turned his attention to the ground, pulled out a knife, and carved a couple of sigils.

From his place in the timeline, he shouldn’t have known them.

He wasn’t sure what was happening, he only knew that it was happening. He didn’t know how much of the dream had been just a dream and how much of it was a memory. Castiel’s blue eyes haunted him, the only thing he could picture as he worked. “Please,” Dean put his hands together, closing his eyes. He knew how to be faithful, how to pray to someone who actually listened. “Castiel, I know you’re up there. I know you’re probably confused right now – Hell, so am I – but I need you. I need you, buddy. You don’t know me, yet, and I don’t know how to explain it to you, but I need you.”

He took a deep breath, his fingers curling down as he continued.

“I know you’re not supposed to intervene. I know we’re following a plan and I know it’s supposed to be a war, but I can’t let it happen,” Dean sighed. “Not when I know what’s coming down the road.”

A fluttering of wings made him tense up, but he stayed in his position.

“You pray like a desperate man,” came the same voice he remembered. Jimmy Novak’s voice, the man inside not yet gone. Dean looked up at Castiel, who stared back at him with confused eyes. “How do you know who I am?”

“If I’m desperate,” Dean met his eyes. “Then it’s for you.”

Standing up, he brushed his knees off, tucking his knife away. “Sammy got grabbed,” he told the angel. “I know it’s part of a ‘Greater Plan’ but I’ve seen that plan play out and it _sucks,_ man. We have to go rescue him.”

Frowning, Castiel circled him.

In the faint light, he could see dark shadows dragging out behind Castiel, going on for several dozen yards. His wings, in much better shape than the first time Dean had ever seen them. This was the first time he had seen them, now. He was starting to get his bearings.

He had been dragged back from the future, connecting with each point of unconsciousness until he had found the one that would make the difference.

Dean didn’t know how he knew that.

“Sam Winchester is where he is meant to be,” Castiel frowned. “There is nothing I can do.”

“There’s something _we_ can do,” another voice came from behind Dean. He knew who he would see when he turned around. Gabriel had practically lived in Sam’s pocket every time they had run into him. He had chased after him, followed him around, taunted him the most. Like a kid pulling on pigtails because he didn’t know how else to show his affection. “Cassy,” Gabriel stepped into Dean’s line of sight, pulling out a candy bar and grinning as he took a bite. “You know he’s right.”

For a moment, Dean saw stitches across his mouth.

“You know,” he said the words out loud. Gabriel turned those weirdly bright eyes on him – did all angels have eyes that bright? – and his smile turned softer. “About me and Sam. About what happens to us. About…About everyone who dies.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel scoffed. “I’m the reason you’re here.”

He paused.

“I think.”

“You think?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Deano,” Gabriel shifted his candy bar into a sucker and popped it into his mouth. Shaking his head, he tucked it into his cheek. “The reception’s a little fuzzy, but I’m still getting signal. You don’t have to pray to me – Sam will do that plenty. I got a stream of images telling me what happens, telling me who dies. Who lives. Who tells every story, what the Prophet is like.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Cassy, trust me. We need to help him.”

Castiel stared at the two of them. “You do not know them.”

“Not yet,” Gabriel looked at his brother. “We will. And the future needs to unfurl in a different way.”

“Do you know why Cas doesn’t have the same information?” Dean clenched his hands into fists. He needed to know. He couldn’t explain everything, couldn’t make himself live the death of Castiel again and again as an angel who didn’t yet understand humanity tried to make sense of a life they hadn’t yet lived. “And we need to make it quick. Sam’s in that abandoned ghost town. The one where he dies and then from there—” he stopped, realizing something. “This is the point at which we could make a difference, isn’t it? This is the point where…This is before I make a Deal to bring Sam back to life.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel gestured to Castiel, who hesitated before walking over. Gabriel clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder, followed by Castiel, and grinned when they landed on Bobby’s property. “I’m in no hurry to end up in the darkness with the Empty again, okay?”

As Bobby came running up to them, Dean leaned back against the Impala, feeling the future running towards them as well.

This time it would be different.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so...I started this like...Two years ago. I let it sit for a while and then the finale of the series happened and I got ANGRY?!? Just what the hell was that? Bury Your Gays but make it Ten Years Of Queerbaiting and also As Homophobic As Possible. 
> 
> And then that's how they did Dean in? _I'm Insulted._
> 
> So have this weird thing. I may continue it, I may not.


End file.
